


Damages

by sohii



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Confrontations, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Panic Attacks, Pre-Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, tied-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 10:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25847761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sohii/pseuds/sohii
Summary: Three confrontations between Dick Grayson and Jason Todd; Dick finds out his little brother is still alive and they proceeds to have a tough talks while tied together.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 16
Kudos: 158
Collections: JayDick Summer Exchange 2020





	Damages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [robinlikeitshot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robinlikeitshot/gifts).



> Largely implied JayDick at the very end, otherwise it ought to read as Gen. This was quite the challenge, I really enjoyed it! :)

**Discoveries**

Dick wakes up in a warehouse, his hands tied behind the back of the chair, his legs restrained. There’s someone else in the room with him, their breathing even if laboured. Somewhere off to his left a fluorescent light keeps blinking on and off, the soft pop of its struggling to stay on drowning out the sound of whoever is with him. 

Slowly Dick opens his eyes, letting his head hang low in an effort to hide it. If the sound of the lamp had been distracting, the flickering light is its own challenge as his eyes adjust. He sees no blood on his uniform but he feels a piercing pain each time he breathes in, on his lower right ribs. They’re bruised, likely broken.

A groan from the person across from him interrupts the steady struggle of the light. Dick keeps his eyes down. He suspects they’re another captive but can’t be sure yet. It’s unlikely they’d have left him tied up with a civilian. If they have, they’re either dumber than he thought or much more cruel. 

He shuts his eyes briefly, concentrating on what he remembers last. It had been a routine patrol until he had picked up the trail of one of Penguin's goons. He’d only meant to surveil her, only intercept if necessary when the newest rogues, the Red Hood, had shown up. It had all gone downhill from there. 

It had been a trap for the Red Hood and Dick thought Nightwing had been an unintended witness. Alerting B to the situation and seeing the odds Red Hood was up against, he had jumped into the fray. He remembers being impressed by Red Hood’s skill, Red Hood calling out to him - angry? - and finally the knockout gas he hadn’t been prepared for. 

Whoever has tied him to the chair, Dick is forced to give them their due credit. There’s next to no wiggle room and he can’t tell how numb his hands are without flexing them. Instead he opens his eyes again and lifts his head. The first thing he sees is the red helmet laying on the floor. It looks burned around the bottom edge, black soot covering it in a pattern that did not bode well for the fingers of whoever had the misfortune of pulling it off. 

Dick can’t deny the curiosity that grips him, the rush of it as his heart picks up its pace. Red Hood has been a threat to his family for the past year, insistent and dangerous. It’s not all he is. Dick’s seen the way Red Hood’s cleaned up the parts of Gotham he’s claimed, the calm he’s established. It’s not something Dick can claim he’s achieved, in either uniform. 

Red Hood believes the end justify the means. It’s not all he is but it’s all that matters to B. 

He finally gives into that curiosity and lifts his eyes to the man across from him. He’s tied to the chair much like Dick, his leather jacket gone and his holsters empty. He’s sturdy, bigger than Dick, a strong man rather than an acrobat. There’s a shock of white hair among the black and he looks much younger than Dick expected. 

And then Red Hood looks up, tossing the hair out of his face and stares Dick right in the eye.

It’s not fair how much he looks like Jason.

Dick’s stomach drops and his hands clench - as numb as he expected - as he rebels against that impossible hope. Red Hood is achingly familiar in the worst ways possible, a glimpse of someone loved and lost. He looks down at the helmet, its empty eyes mocking him. He desperately wants to put it back on the man, hide the black and white hair, hide that mouth, hide his eyes. 

It’s reckless, not knowing who might be listening, who might have eyes on them. It’s reckless, wishing to bury your head in the sand and ignore it all, to go back to the way things were. It’s reckless to hope that everything might be okay. But Dick’s always been one to jump. 

“Jason?” He asks, mouth dry, heart in his throat. _Please_ , he wants to add but he’s not sure what he’s asking for. 

Red Hood spits on the floor and it’s mostly blood. He meets Dick’s eyes and sneers, his teeth red. 

“Dick,” Red Hood throws at him and Dick can’t tell if it's an acknowledgement or an insult or both. There’s so little of the boy Dick knew in the man in front of him. 

“Is it really you?” Dick’s voice is thin, barely above a whisper. The room feels smaller at each breath, closing in around the two of them. The fluorescent light expands and contracts the space they’re in with each flicker. 

“Real as I can be,” Jason says, leaning back against his chair, looking at Dick down his nose. There’s a spot on his shoulder that’s wet with blood. His breathing hasn’t gotten any easier. 

“Prove it,” Dick demands, desperate to reel in some control, desperate to believe this man is Jason, no matter his sins. No matter Dick’s sins. He could have Jason back. They all could. 

“Aren’t you the detective?” Red Hood smirks for a flash before it’s gone, giving way to a scowl. His jaw clenches and he looks away, stubborn. He’s weighing his options, Dick knows, but doesn’t know what to offer to sweeten the deal. He gives Red Hood the time he needs. Finally, the man meets his eyes again, angrier than before.

“I stole his wheels and he thought that gave him the right to ruin my fucking life.”

So it is Jason. 

“How?” Magic, cloning, hallucinations - Dick pushes past the jumbled mess of relief and horror and grasps for a logical approach, one he can make sense of. 

“Stranger things have happened. It’s fucking Gotham.” Jason scoffs and Dick wants to shake him. It’s not fair this is how he first meets Jason, not after the dozens of times Red Hood has met him. 

“But he buried you.” For a brief moment Dick wonders if Bruce already knows. If he’s always known. 

“You did. Had a hell of a time crawling out. Can’t say I recommend it.” Jason quips, honest to God _quips_ , like this is the fun part. For all Dick knows, it is. It’s been years since Jason died, since the whole job changed. Whatever edge of fancy, of heroics and humour had existed in Bruce, in Batman, had been lowered in the grave along with Jason. How long had Jason been back? How long until he was going to put them all out of their misery? 

“When were you going to tell us?” Dick asks. He twists his wrist, testing the ropes. They might have more give than he initially anticipated. If he pulls hard enough, he can nearly feel the robe burning against his skin. 

“Why would you think I was gonna tell you shit, Dickface?” 

“We’re your family,” Dick argues. There’s something stuck in his throat, something stinging behind his eyes. He knows he needs more information, to keep Jason talking but for all his training, all his detective skills, he can’t stop thinking how this is his little brother back from the dead. That this is a second chance to save him. 

“Like hell you are. If it weren’t for the Pit, I’d be rotting in some alley,” Jason spits.

“What pit-” Dick tries to interject, trying to understand. His ribs, definitely broken, spike pain through him as he gasps for air, as he strains against the ropes. It drowns out the logical part of his mind, distant and hazy, that knows he needs to calm down. Jason keeps going. 

“Fucking family. Tell me, how’s the clown doing? Huh? What was his big bad punishment for killing a kid? Arkham? Or did Bru-” Jason abruptly cuts himself off, slamming his mouth shut. He shakes his head and whatever emotion, anger or otherwise, is gone when he looks at Dick again. 

“You fucks didn’t care then and you don’t care now.” 

“That’s not true, we grieved, I grieved! Jason, please-” And now Dick is begging, the ropes too tight, his hands numb, Jason out of reach. 

“You didn’t even make time for my fucking funeral.” It’s a condemnation Dick can’t help but deny. It won’t convince Jason but it might convince himself. Jason won’t look at him anymore, staring past his shoulder.

“That’s not true.” 

“Do people buy your bullshit because of the pretty face or something else? I know you. I know all of you. And I won’t stop until you’re all dead,” Jason swears and from the corner of his eye, Dick sees the rope holding Jason fall to the floor. 

“Jason, please-” But whatever Dick has to say, whatever he means to beg for is drowned out by the flashbomb. The light blinds him, his ears ringing as smoke fills the warehouse. After a moment, he can hear shouting, muffled sounds of bodies colliding. He jerks away when he feels a hand on his arm but it’s Robin, already cutting away at the rope. By the time he can stand up, the smoke has cleared enough to reveal an empty chair across from him but no red helmet and no Red Hood. 

  
  
  
  


**On the Offensive (6 months later)**

Jason is beginning to lose feeling in his fingers, the telltale tingling working its way up his arms. Not too long ago, he was still able to feel Dick’s fingers against his where they are bound together, back to back. How the fuck this keeps happening, Jason’s not sure, but it does little for his temper. He makes a last ditch effort to yank his hands free but at the sound of Dick’s muffled shout of pain, he sags against the restraints.

“Why the shit are you here?” Jason asks because there’s no other way to lash out. He would prefer to smash something but he’ll take what’s offered. Dick’s a fucking martyr through and through, all Jason has to do is give him a sword. 

“It was my case. _You_ decided to get involved,” Dick sighs and fuck, Jason hates not being able to see his face. Much easier to stay a step ahead of the golden child if he could just get a read on the man. Jason tries pushing himself up, shifting his weight but the restraints won’t allow for it. 

“Yeah, well, because you were doing such a great fucking job,” Jason mumbles. 

“We could team up you know, join forces?” Jason thinks Dick might be smiling, his eyes all crinkled. He _hates_ it. 

“Just shut the fuck up, I can’t stand your stupid voice,” Jason answers. To his surprise Dick doesn’t reply and they fall into silence. It’s not comfortable and soon the ache has made it all the way up to Jason’s shoulders. He leans further against Dick, the cold basement air getting under his skin. It’s much easier to take without asking.

They sit in the barely there quiet long enough for the rising sun to begin brightening the sky outside. The ground level windows, nothing more than dust covered slants, seem to almost glow. There’s something soft and tempered in that moment, in those early morning hours, or maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe he’s gotten soft in his old age; Jason cycles through a lot of excuses in the weeks that follow. Regardless, Dick takes the offered sword and instead of falling on it, slides it between Jason’s ribs. 

“I did it, you know,” Dick sounds distant, disconnected from the sensation of warmth and weight pressing against Jason’s back, “I killed the Joker.”

It all goes numb for a moment, put on hold. It’s like he’s dead again and the Joker’s finally done swinging and none of it hurts anymore. Then he’s awake again, in a dark coffin and he can’t breathe.

“B brought him back, saved his life,” Dick continues, with more conviction this time, “Saved mine.”

The basement pulses with green, the Pit crawling out of the corners of Jason’s mind and choking him. He feels small, his whole body too big for him, and he wants to curl up and hide. He wants to swing out and hurt. 

“Good for you,” Jason grits out, holding onto himself. He’s Jason Todd, he’s Red Hood, he’s in control. It’s slipping.

“I regret it.” Dick says. He sounds cold yet confessional, his voice light but hushed. 

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Jason says, “You broke code and he still forgave you, fucking golden child.” Why Bruce couldn’t love him enough to extend the same damn grace to him, Jason can’t understand. 

“Not because of the code. It was never about the code.” Dick shakes his head and Jason can feel Dick’s hair, long enough to curl at the tips, brush against the back of his neck. It makes him nauseous, desperate to wipe at his neck and dispel the sensation but his hands are numb and he can’t get away and everything is green green green. 

“It was about you. I did it for you.” Dick says. “He said your name and I couldn’t stop myself.”

Jason takes a deep breath. Then another. A third. It's supposed to be all he wanted. This was supposed to make it all alright. But the Joker is still alive and it all rings deafeningly hollow. But maybe this is it, maybe he can cling to this and drag himself back to a semblance of - who exactly, Jason doesn't know. But he imagines they'd be a better man than he is.

“And I regret it,” Dick repeats before he turns his head, his mouth that much closer to Jason and confesses, “Because you aren’t worth it.” 

There’s dirt in Jason’s lungs. He’s crawling out of his own grave and he can’t breathe, he’s drowning in the Lazarus Pit and he can’t breathe, he’s trapped in this basement with Dick fucking Grayson and he can’t breathe. 

For a moment he’s sure the building's collapsed on them and they are buried in the rubble, crushed. Jason _aches_. Through the debris, there’s a voice, calling his name, digging him up and out. 

“-ason, breathe, I need you to breathe, please, just follow my lead, just like he taught us-” And Dick guides him through the breathing exercise that ~~Bruce taught him and must have taught Dick before him, probably taught the poor shit that got conned into the job too~~ that he’s familiar with and slowly the basement rebuilds itself around them. The ache from before is washed in a new kind of numbness, one that doesn’t tingle but instead muffles the world around him. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I don't know why I said that," he can hear the tears in Dick’s voice but he doesn’t know what to do when people cry, never has. His mom used to cry a lot, Jason thinks. He’ll just ignore it until it goes away. 

“Jason? Jason, please talk to me?” Dick keeps pleading, babbling until he too grows quiet. 

Jason keeps his dumb mouth shut for the rest of the night. When their captors come for them in the morning and they make their escape, he doesn't make sure Nightwing gets out in the ensuing fight.

**Retreat (6 months later)**

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Jason says from the open window, frowning at Dick who is currently tied up against one of the concrete beams on the factory floor. Machinery fills the room, disappearing into vague looming shapes beyond the light that filters in from the street. 

“Could be worse,” Dick counters, wiggling his fingers that are suspended above his head, “You could be tied up with me.” 

Jason agrees with a put upon smile, stepping into the room. It’s sloppy work, no traps and shamefully simple surveillance and yet, here Dick is. Some fucking luck. 

“A fate worse than death, goldie,” Jason says, pulling out a knife holstered to his thigh. He flicks it open, flipping the knife back and forth in his hand a few times. He’s learned to breathe through the flares of anger now, to redirect that energy to his hands instead. He flicks the knife one more time.

“You would know,” Dick concedes and they’re aiming for banter but shooting to kill. It’s a wonder they’ve made it this far, both too stubborn to admit they can’t work. Both their heads too far up their own asses, Jason figures. 

“Yeah, I would.” He begins sawing away at the ropes at Dick’s feet, allowing them both a moment to retreat and restrategize. There’s something he has to tell Dick, something he’s put off for too long. They’ve made a real tradition of honesty and ropes. The irony that he’s free while only Dick is restrained isn’t lost on him. Jason clears his throat. He looks Dick in the eyes, halting his progress with the rope. 

“I’m telling you this because I think,” Jason stumbles, thinks _because you deserve to know_ , continues instead with, “I think not telling you defeats the purpose.” 

“Cryptic. Do tell?” Dick wiggles his legs, trying to redirect Jason’s attention. Jason places his hand on them, urging Dick to just sit still for one fucking second. 

“I’m leaving.” 

“Leaving,” Dick echoes, not quite a question. He stills under Jason’s touch. 

“Yeah. I’m gonna leave Gotham. Tonight, tomorrow, next week, I don’t know yet. But sometime soon.” Jason doesn’t have much of a plan beyond fresh air, fresh faces and a burgeoning sense of wanting to do, wanting to _be_ better. 

“I’m leaving because I have to sort my shit out and I’m done doing it on B’s terms.” He’s also come to realise it can’t be done on Bruce’s terms. His approval, his forgiveness, his death won’t change who Jason is. 

“What about me?” Dick asks because the two of them can’t ever talk about Bruce. Jason brings the knife up from Dick’s feet and presses it under his jaw. There’s a deep capacity for violence in both of them and not just for the physical kind. Jason’s seen it, felt it, imitated it. It’s the kind of violence that’ll seep through your own person, turn against you in all the ways you taught it how. 

“If you had a brain behind that pretty face,” Jason tilts Dick’s head up, knife tip digging into the softness under his jaw, “you’d figure your shit out too.”

Dick swallows and Jason pulls the knife away, slipping it into its sheath that’s strapped to his thigh. He starts tugging on the frayed ropes, untying Dick’s legs. Once the ropes are done and Jason tosses them aside, Dick pulls his knees up, a weak shield between him and Jason. 

“I meant what I said. You can’t keep this up.” Jason stands up, pulling out the knife again. 

“Worked fine for us,” Dick insists as Jason begins to cut through the ropes around his hands. Jason’s not wholly sure what Dick is referring to; their many times tied up together in villainous lairs, in basements, in beds, in constant fights? His answer is the same regardless. 

“No, it didn’t.” It’s odd then, after countless insults and jabs, that it’s the truth that breaks Dick. Jason hears Dick’s breath hitch and for a second he worries Dick is going to cry. He doubles his efforts on the rope.

“Please stay.” Dick’s voice is thick and maybe a bit embarrassed. Somewhere along the line Jason learned to pick that out from just the sound of his voice and isn’t that a fucking kicker. A traitorous little voice in his head wonders how much more there is to learn?

When the rope finally gives, Jason puts away the knife and grabs a hold of Dick’s hands. He crouches down, holds on as Dick rolls his shoulders, massages sensation back into them. It’s only when Dick tries to grasp him back that he let’s go. It costs him more than he’s willing to admit but he grips Dick’s cheeks, thumbing a bit of dirt off his cheek, succeeding only to smear it further. He shakes his head.

“You’re better than all of us. If I can do this, you can-” He loses momentum when Dick’s eyes meet his. _You could thrive,_ he thinks. Jason hesitates, his touch gentle for what might be the first time since the pit. It’s a revelation all on its own, that he still has the capacity for it, that it’s Dick that brings it out in him. He isn’t sure how to foster it but, Jason thinks, if he managed it once, he can do it again. 

He takes a breath and sees it through, “You could be better.” 

Dick flinches but Jason holds on, tries to pass on what he means through the warmth of his palms. They make a poor substitute for words but Jason has little left in his arsenal. It’s as good of a goodbye as he can manage.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Dick confesses because some fears sit bone deep, making one last plea, “Please stay?” 

Jason let’s go of Dick’s cheeks, of Dick entirely, and steps away. He dusts off his jacket and holds up his empty hands, palms up, in surrender. 

“No,” Jason says and leaves. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Would That I Could Do It Over Again...Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26160226) by [Crossover_Critter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crossover_Critter/pseuds/Crossover_Critter)




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